Something splashed on the table beside him, but he took no notice.
“Blasphemy, of course—or rather what the Bourgeois call blasphemy—is instilled at once. We teach them to fear no God; we drive into them each week that the so-called God is merely a weapon of the Capitalist class to keep them quiet, and that if it had not that effect they would see what a machine-gun could do. And, Yulowski, it is having its effect. Get at the children has always been my motto—for they are the next generation. They can be moulded like plastic clay; their parents, so often, are set in a groove. We preach class hatred—and nothing but class hatred. We give them songs to sing—songs with a real catchy tune. There’s one very good one in which the chorus goes:
“Come, workers, sing a rebel song, a song of love and hate,
Of love unto the lowly and of hatred to the great.”
He paused to let the full effect of the sublime stanza sink in, and again something splashed on to the table. Yulowski nodded his head indifferently.
“I admit its value, my friend,” he remarked in a curious husky whisper. “And in your country I suppose you must go slowly. I fear my inclinations lead towards something more rapid and—er—drastic. Sooner or later the Bourgeois must be exterminated all the world over. On that we are agreed. Why not make it sooner as we did in Russia? The best treatment for any of the Capitalist class is a bayonet in the stomach and a rifle butt on the head.”
He smiled reminiscently, a thin, cruel smile, and once again there came an unheeded splash.
“I have heard it said,” remarked the other man, with the faintest hesitation, “that you yourself were responsible in Russia for a good many of them.”
The smile grew more pronounced and cruel. “It was I, my friend, who battered out the brains of two members of the Arch Tyrant’s family. Yes, I—I who sit here.” His voice rose to a sort of throaty shout and his eyes gleamed. “You can guess who I mean, can’t you?”
“Two girls,” muttered the other, recoiling a little in spite of himself.
“Two—” The foul epithet went unuttered; Yulowski was staring fascinated at the table. “Holy Mother! what’s that?”
His companion swung round, and every vestige of colour left his face. On the table was a big red pool, and even as he watched it there came another splash and a big drop fell into it.
“Blood!” he stammered, and his lips were shaking. “It’s blood.” And then he heard the Russian’s voice, low and tense.
“Look at the ceiling, man, look at the ceiling.”
He stared upwards and gave a little cry of horror. Slowly spreading over the white plaster was a great crimson stain, whilst from a crack in the middle the steady drip fell on to the table.
It was Yulowski who recovered himself first; he was more used to such sights than his companion.
“There’s been murder done,” he shouted hoarsely, and dashed out of the room. Doors were flung open, and half a dozen men rushed up the stairs after him. There was no doubt which the room was, and headed by Yulowski they crowded in—only to stop and stare at what lay on the floor.
“It’s the Greek,” muttered one of them. “He was guarding the girl. And someone has severed the main artery in his arm.”
With one accord they dashed across the passage to the room where Phyllis had been. In a second the door was broken in, and they saw the unconscious Italian lying on the bed.
“The Black Gang,” muttered someone fearfully, and Yulowski cursed him for a cowardly swine. And it was his hoarse voice that Drummond heard shouting for the power to be switched on, as he turned and darted across the lawn.
Completely ignorant of what had taken place, he was just as ignorant of what was meant by switching on the power. His one thought now was to get away with Phyllis. A start meant everything, and at the best he couldn’t hope for a long one. With his arm through hers he urged her forward, while behind him he heard a confused shouting which gradually died away under the peremptory orders of someone who seemed to be in command. And almost subconsciously he noticed that the thudding noise had ceased; only the faint humming of the engine broke the silence.
Suddenly in front of him he saw the fence which had caused him to wonder earlier in the evening. It was just the same in this part as it had been in the other, but he wasn’t concerned with speculations about it now. The only thing he was thankful for was that it was easy to get through.
He was not five feet from it, when it happened—the amazing and at the moment inexplicable thing. For months after he used to wake in the night and lie sweating with horror at the nearness of the escape. For it would have been Phyllis who would have gone through first; it would have been Phyllis, who—But it did happen—just in time.
He saw a dark shape dart across the open towards the fence, an animal carrying something in its mouth. It reached the fence, and the next instant it bounded an incredible height in the air, only to fall backwards on to the ground and lie motionless almost at Drummond’s feet. It was so utterly unexpected that he paused instinctively and stared at it. It was a fox, and the fowl it had been carrying lay a yard away. It lay there rigid and motionless, and completely bewildered he bent and touched it, only to draw back his hand as if he’d been stung. A sharp stabbing pain shot up his arm, as if he’d had an electric shock—and suddenly he understood, and with a cry of fear he dragged Phyllis back just in time.
The brain moves rapidly at times; the inherent connection of things takes place in a flash. And the words he had used to the Italian, “E pericoloso sporgersi,” took him back to Switzerland, where the phrase is written on every railway carriage. And in Switzerland, you may see those heavy steel pylons with curved pointed hooks to prevent people climbing up, and red bands painted with the words ‘Danger de mort’. Live wires there are at the top, carried on insulators—even as the fence wires were carried through insulators in the uprights.
Danger de mort. And the fox had been electrocuted. That was what the man had meant by shouting for the power to be switched on. And as he stood there still clutching Phyllis’s arm, and shaken for the moment out of his usual calm, there came from the direction of the house, the deep-throated baying of a big hound.
“What is it, Hugh?” said Phyllis in an agonised whisper. With terrified eyes she was staring at the body of the fox, stiff and rigid in death, and with its jaws parted in a hideous snarl.
And again there came from the direction of the house a deep-throated bay.
Then suddenly she realised that her husband was speaking—quietly, insistently. Only too well did he know the danger: only too well did he know that never before in his life had the situation been so tight. But no sign of it showed on his face: not a trace of indecision appeared in his voice. The position was desperate, the remedy must be desperate too.
“We can’t climb through the fence, dear,” he was saying calmly. “You see they’ve switched an electric current through the wires, and if you touch one you’ll be electrocuted. Also they seem to have turned an unpleasant little animal into the garden, so we can’t stay here. At least—you can’t. So I’m going to throw you over the top.”
In an agony of fear she clung to him for a moment: then as she saw his quiet, set face she pulled herself together and smiled. There was no time for argument now: there was no time for anything except instant action. And being a thoroughbred, she was not going to hinder him by any weakness on her part. Of fear for herself she felt no trace: her faith and trust in her husband was absolute. And so she stood there silently waiting while he measured height and distance with his eye.
Of his ability to get her over he felt no doubt: but when a mistake means death to the woman he loves a man does not take risks. “Come, dear,”